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Praise forTHE CLOCKWORK VAMPIRE CHRONICLES

“I dived straight in, emerging a couple of days later –

with a grin on my face… an engaging, fast paced cock-

tail of violence and intrigue that grabs you right from

the outset and doesn’t let go until you run out of

pages.”

My Favourite Books

“Kell’s Legend is a roller coaster ride of a book that

grabbed me right from the first page and tore off at a

rate of knots like I hadn’t seen in a long time.”

Graeme’s Fantasy Book Review

“Soul Stealers is fast, brutal and above all unmissable,

there is quite simply nothing out there that can cur-

rently compare to Andy Remic’s unrelenting,

unforgiving and unflinching style. The new King of

Heroic Fantasy has arrived. 5*****”

SFBook.com

“Add to the mix a good dollop of battlefield humour...

backed up with a stark descriptiveness and it’s a tale

that gives Remic a firm footing within the genre.”

Falcata Times

“A rip-roaring beast of a novel, a whirlwind of frantic

battles and fraught relationships against a bleak back-

ground of invasion and enslavement. In other words, it

takes all the vital ingredients for a good heroic fantasy

novel and turns out something very pleasing indeed.”

Speculative Horizons

“A fun ride… I give it four bloody axes out of five.”

Gnostalgia

an excerpt fromVAMPIRE WARLORDS

The Clockwork Vampire Chronicles vol. IIIby Andy Remic

To be published May 2011 (UK/RoW) andJune 2011 (North America)

by Angry Robot, in paperback and eBookformats.

UK ISBN: 978-0-85766-105-0US ISBN: 978-85766-106-7

eBOOK ISBN: 978-0-85766-107-4

Angry RobotAn imprint of the Osprey Group

Distributed in the US & Canadaby Random House

angryrobotbooks.com

Copyright © Andy Remic 2011

All rights reserved. However, feel free to share this

sample chapter with anyone you wish. And if you

like this, go and buy Andy’s books. And if you love

them, tell your friends too…

The wind howled like a spear-stuck pig. Black snow

peppered the mountains. Ice blew like ash confetti at a

corpse wedding. The Black Pike Mountains seemed to

sigh, languorously, as the sky turned black, the stars

spluttered out, and the world ceased its endless turn on

a corrupted axis. And then the Chaos Halls flickered into

existence like an extinguished candle in reverse.

A sour wind blew, a death-kiss from beyond the

world of men and gods and liars, and smoke swirled

like acid through the sky, black and grey, infused with

ancient symbols and curling snakes and stinging insects.

The smoke drifted down, almost casually, to Helltop at

the summit of the great mountain Skaringa Dak. The

Granite Thrones, empty for a thousand years, were

filled again with substance. With flesh.

The three Vampire Warlords, as old as the world, as

twisted as chaos, formed against the Granite Thrones

where they were summoned. Almost. Their figures were

tall, bodies narrow shanks, limbs long and spindly and

PROLOGUE

Portal

5

disjointed, elbows and knees working the wrong way.

Their faces were blank plates on a tombstone, eyes an

evil dark slash of red like fresh-spilled arterial gore, and

yet their worst feature, their most unsettling feature,

was in their complete physical entirety. For in appear-

ing, they did not settle. Did not solidify. Their

nakedness, if that was what it was for the Vampire War-

lords wore no clothing, was a diffusion of blacks and

greys, a million tiny greasy smoke coils constantly twist-

ing and writhing like an orgy of corpse lovers entwined,

cancerous entrails like black snakes, unwound spools

of necrotic bowel, and their flesh relentlessly moved,

shifted, coalesced, squirmed as if seeking to strip itself

free of a steel endoskeleton forged from pure hate.

Their skin coagulated into strange symbols, ancient

artefacts, snakes and spiders and cockroaches and all

manner of stinging biting slashing chaos welcomed into

this, The Whole. They were not mortal. They were not

gods. They were something in-between, and oozed a

lazy power, terrible and delinquent, and none could

look upon that writhing flesh and wish to be a part of

this abomination. Their skin and muscle and tendon

and bones were a distillation of entrapped demons, an

absorption of evil souls, an essence of corrupt matter

which formed a paved avenue all the way back to the

shimmering decadence of the vanishing Chaos Halls.

The Vampire Warlords turned their heads, as one,

and stared down at the two men… the two vachine,

who had summoned them, released them, cast them

into ice and freedom.

And the Vampire Warlords laughed, voices high-

6 VAMPIRE WARLORDS

pitched and surreal, the laughter of the insane but more,

the laughter of insanity linked to a binary intelligence,

a two-state recognition of good and bad, order and

chaos, pandemonium and… lawlessness.

“You,” said Kuradek, and this was Kuradek the Un-

holy, and his skin squirmed with dark religious

symbols, with flowing doctrine oozing like pus, with a

bare essence of hatred for anything which preached the

word of God upon this decadent and putrefying world.

In the history books, the text claimed Kuradek had

burned churches, raped entire nunneries, sent monas-

teries insane so that monk slew monk with bone knives

fashioned from the flesh-stripped limbs of their slaugh-

tered companions. Kuradek’s arm lifted, now, so

incredibly long and finished in fingers like talons, like

blood-spattered razors. General Graal, mouth hung

open in shock and disbelief, hand pressed against his

face where Kell’s axe had opened his cheek like a ripe

plum, nodded eagerly as if frightened to offend. Fearful

not just of death, but of an eternity of writhing and

oblivion in a tank of acrid oil.

“Yes, Warlord?” Barely more than a whisper. Graal

bent his head, and stared in relief at the frozen moun-

tain plateau beneath his boots. Anything was better

than looking into those eyes. Anything was better than

observing that succulent flesh.

“Come here, slave.”

“Yes, Warlord.”

General Graal straightened his back, a new anger forc-

ing him ramrod stiff and his eyes narrowed and he

stepped up onto the low plinth where the Granite

ANDY REMIC 7

Thrones squatted like black poisonous toads. Kuradek

was standing, and the other Warlords, Meshwar the Vio-

lent and Bhu Vanesh, the Eater in the Dark, were seated,

gore eyes glittering with an ancient, malign intelligence.

“You sought to control us, just as the Keepers con-

trolled us,” said Kuradek.

Silence flooded the plateau, and all present lowered

heads, averted eyes, as a wind of desolation blew across

the space, chilling souls. Graal, teeth gritted, did well to

maintain that gaze. Now he was close, he could make

out finer details. The skin, the flesh of coiling smoke, of

writhing symbols, of constantly changing twisted im-

agery, was glossy – as if wet. As if oiled. And now he

could see the Vampire Warlords’ vampire fangs. Short,

and black, like necrotic bone. Not shimmering in gold

and silver like the vanity of the vachine. Graal ground

his teeth. Oh how they must have laughed at the nar-

cissism of the vachine sub-species. How they must now

be revelling in such petty beauties the vachine had

heaped upon themselves.

“No, I…”

Graal stopped. Kuradek was staring at him. Foolish.

He could read Graal’s mind. Kuradek made a lazy ges-

ture, and for a moment his entire being seemed to glow,

the smoke swirling faster within the confines of its

trapped cell, Kuradek’s living flesh. General Graal, com-

mander of the Army of Iron, was punched in an

acceleration of flailing limbs across the granite plateau.

He screamed, a short sharp noise, then was silent as he

hit the ground and rolled fast, limbs flailing, to slap to

a halt in a puddle of melted snow. He did not move.

8 VAMPIRE WARLORDS

Kuradek turned to Kradek-ka, who half-turned, as if to

run. He was picked up, tossed away like a broken spine,

limbs thrashing as he connected with a rearing wall of

savage rock. He tumbled to the ground, face a bloody,

smashed mask, and was still.

Now, the other Warlords stood. They moved easily,

fluid, with a sense of great physical power held in re-

serve. All three gazed up as the Chaos Halls gradually

faded and the stars blinked back into existence, one by

one. Now, the wind dropped. Total silence covered the

Black Pike Mountains like a veil of ash.

“We are here,” growled Meshwar, and as he spoke

tiny trickles of smoke oozed around his vampire fangs,

like the souls of the slain attempting escape.

“Yes,” said Bhu Vanesh. Also known as the Eater in

the Dark, Bhu Vanesh was a terrible and terrifying

hunter. Whereas Meshwar simply revelled in open raw

violence, in pain for the sake of pain, in punishment

without crime, in murder over forgiveness, Bhu Vanesh

was more complex, esoteric, subtle and devastating. Be-

fore his imprisonment, Bhu Vanesh had prided himself

on being the greatest vampire hunter; he would and

could hunt anything, up to and including other Vampire

Warlords. Before their chains in the Chaos Halls, Bhu

Vanesh had sought out the greatest natural hunters in

the world and let them free in forests and mountain

landscapes, using himself as bait, himself as hunter.

When the hunt was done, with his captured victims

staked out, he would gradually strip out their spines disc

by disc, popping free of torn muscle and skin and ten-

dons, and he would sit by the camp fire as his hunted

ANDY REMIC 9

victims screamed, or sobbed, or simply watched with

stunned eyes as Bhu Vanesh savoured his trophy, licked

the gristle from the spine in his fist, sucking free the

cerebrospinal fluid with great slurps of pleasure. Bhu

Vanesh was the most feral of the three Vampire War-

lords. He was the most deadly. An unappointed leader…

Bhu Vanesh was the Prime.

Meshwar pointed to an albino soldier. “You. Soldier.

Get Graal.” The man gave a curt nod, and crossed to the

General, helping him wearily, painfully, to his feet.

Graal leant on the albino soldier, panting, blood and

snot and drool pooling from his smashed mouth, his

battered face. His pale vachine skin was marked as if

beaten by a hammer.

Kuradek strolled across the clearing, and a cool wind

blew in as the world was restored to normality, as

blood-oil magick eased from the mountains like a back-

door thief slinking into the night. Kuradek climbed up

a rocky wall, his thin limbs and talons scarring the rock.

Pebbles rattled down in the wake of his climb. Then he

stood, on a narrow pinnacle of iced slate, and gazed out

over Silva Valley, once home to the vachine civilisation,

now flooded, thousands of vachine drowned to seal the

magick that would return the Vampire Warlords to the

mortal realm.

Shortly, his brothers joined him, and the three tall,

spindly creatures, their shapes a mockery of human

physiology, their flesh constantly shifting in

chameleonic phases of smoke and symbols, stood tall

and proud and surveyed the world like newborns.

“The vachine are dead,” said Kuradek.

10 VAMPIRE WARLORDS

“Mostly,” observed Meshwar.

“Those that live need to be hunted,” said Bhu

Vanesh, a smoke tongue like a rattlesnake’s tail licking

over black fangs. He anticipated the hunt in all things.

It was what gave his existence simple meaning.

“Not yet,” said Kuradek. “We are new again to this

world. We are weak from escape and birth. We need

strength. We need to build the vampire clans. Like an-

cient times, my friends. Like the bad old days.”

“Suggestions?” Meshwar turned to Kuradek, narrow

red eyes glowing with malevolence.

“I remember this country,” said Kuradek, looking

back over hundreds of years, his mind dizzy with the

passage of time, coalescing with images of so many peo-

ple and places and murders. “This is the homeland of

the Ankarok.”

Bhu Vanesh made a low, hissing sound.

“They were imprisoned,” said Meshwar. “Just as we.”

“Yes. We must watch. Be careful. But until then, I

feel a stench in the air. It is an unclear stench. It is the

stench of people, of men and women and children,

meat, unhealthy and unclean, with no pride or power

or natural dignity. We must separate, my brothers, we

must head out into the world and,” he licked his black

fangs, eyes glinting by the light of the innocent moon,

“we must repopulate.”

“So we go to war?” said Meshwar, and his voice held

excitement, anticipation and… something else. It took

little for Meshwar to become aroused.

“Yes. War. Against all those deviants, lacking in vam-

pire purity!”

ANDY REMIC 11

Events were a blur for Saark, the rich dandy, the flam-

boyant womaniser, for all that interested him in life was

fine wine and raucous sex, silver platters of finely

carved pig-meat, juicy eyeballs soaked in thin apple

sauce from the figarall fish caught in iron traps under

the Salarl Ocean. He was obsessed with pleasure, with

joy, his own unstoppable and unquenchable lust; Saark

was a hedonist, a narcissist, a nihilist, and unashamed

of his open succulent fire. And yet now, now it was a

blur. His life was a blur, and everything in it filled with

a dreamlike quality, a haze of misunderstanding, of

confusion – and more importantly, of–

Pain.

The knife cut into his chest and he may have

screamed, his kicking limbs lurching in epileptic

spasms. The knife was burning hot then ice cold, burn-

ing, burning as the tip skewered his skin, and his

muscle, and sawed rhythmically and with razor-eager-

ness through his breast-bone leaving him gasping, teeth

clacking repeatedly, fingers flexing as he begged begged

CHAPTER ONE

Underwurlde

12

to make it stop make it stop, but the face over him was

hard and brutal, the face of the vachine Watchmaker,

Kradek-ka and Saark’s blood flushed down his chest,

his belly, and he felt something removed from him.

Saark lay there, gasping, flopped like a fish on the

Granite Throne and black snow fell and a cold wind whis-

tled, disturbing his long black curls. The wind smelled

good, smelled of ice and freedom beyond the mountains,

beyond this imprisonment of the blade which had sun-

dered his pale weak brittle flesh. The mountains. The

Black Pike Mountains. Skaringa Dak. Helltop.

These names were distant, now, tails of smoke, and

his blood pounded in his veins and he was different.

Saark had been infected by the bite of the Soul Stealer,

her venom pumping round his veins and infusing him

with the toxin of the vachine, the vampires, a second-

rate disease for a second-rate hero… Saark laughed.

Blood bubbled around his lips from punctured lungs.

He felt like he was dying. And he knew: surely he was.

Saark could ascertain noises, shouting, the clash of

weapons, but they were all gone and lost to him. Con-

sciousness fled like a startled kitten, and when he

awoke the cool granite of Helltop was pressing his face

like a lover. He heard more shouts, and sobbing, and

one eye could see the dark sky filled with a portal into

the Chaos Halls, the Blood Void, the Bone Graveyard,

and a fist of fear punched through Saark as he listened

to the steady thump thump of his heart, open to the

world, and slowly his hand crawled across the ground.

His fingers crawled across his own slick flesh, slick and

cold, drenched in iced blood, and he found a hole

ANDY REMIC 13

gaping over his heart, and his fingers could feel the

trembling of his heart within because he was open to

the world, carved up like a pig on a slab, and that was

so sweet, so ironic, so frightening.

A hand soothed his brow. Beyond, he could feel a ter-

rible presence, of death and hatred and omniscient

rage. The Vampire Warlords had arrived. And Saark,

even in his disorientated state, knew desolation.

“It will be all right,” soothed a voice in his ear, and

he recognised Nienna and he smiled, and her hands

were stroking his face. He could see fear in her eyes,

though, and knew then he would die. What could she

see? How could she save him?

Saark tried to speak, but could not.

Saark tried to move, but could not.

Distantly, through a mesh of fractured thoughts,

words came to him, all tangled, interlaced, like the

stranded threads of cotton his mother used to repair his

trews. We must go. We must! We cannot! He’s dead. Bring

Saark. Bring Saark. He’s dead. They echoed backwards

and forwards, reverberating as if they were a drunk’s

uneven song in the bottom of a sediment-layered

tankard. Bring Saark! Bring him! A woman’s shriek. Oh

how he longed for a woman’s shriek, but that was a dif-

ferent world, a different age.

Movement. Ice. Cold. Wind. And then–

Plummeting. A feeling of weightlessness. And Saark

remembered no more.

On the icy plateau of Helltop, with the Vampire War-

lords solid and real behind him, newborn demons and

14 VAMPIRE WARLORDS

dark gods and vampires from the Chaos Halls, Kell, with

Saark over one shoulder and dragging Nienna behind

him, his mighty axe Ilanna in one huge fist and rage

and fear pumping through his breast like molten hate,

Kell leapt for the hole in the mountain’s summit, leapt

for the vertical tunnel so recently brimming with waters

which spilled out, were forced out under awesome pres-

sure to flood Silva Valley and drown the vachine living

within…

Kell’s logic was simple. Leap down the vertical tun-

nel. Escape! It had water, down there, somewhere,

spoke his desperate mind; and that would cushion their

fall. If not? Well, a grim side of Kell’s soul decided, if

not then sudden impact, sudden death, it would be bet-

ter than living as slaves to the vampires.

Kell blinked. General Graal was in his way.

Nothing stood in Kell’s way.

In reflex, Ilanna flashed up, smashing Graal’s sword

aside as if wielded by a tottering toddler, and in the

same movement singing blades sliced Graal’s left cheek

apart as if paring tender braised beef from bone. Graal

stumbled back with a shriek, and Kell and Saark and

Nienna tumbled into the hole, into the ancient tunnel

worn through rock by a million years of probing melt-

water. In that instant, Kell glimpsed three figures on the

Granite Thrones. They were fashioned from black

smoke. Their eyes were blood red. And they were

watching him.

Gravity caught Kell in its fist and pulled him down-

wards, separating him from his companions. All

thoughts and fear were smashed aside like a blow from

ANDY REMIC 15

a helve. Acceleration became his mistress, fear glued his

teeth shut, and Kell fell into a headlong dive that

seemed to last forever…

The tunnel was long. White. Images flashed and

blurred before Kell’s eyes. He tumbled occasionally, hit-

ting the sides of the vast tunnel wall but they were

smooth, worn by floods and ice and a raging torrent.

His hair and beard streamed behind him. Tears eased

from old eyes. He dragged Ilanna, his axe, his sweet-

heart, to his chest and lowered his chin and waited for

a terrible impact…

It never came. Gently, the tunnel curved and Kell

was sliding, then free again and falling, diving, and he

heard a distant scream but could do nothing. He

glanced back, and saw only darkness. Again, he was

cradled by a curve in the tunnel, and friction slowed

him, burning the flesh of his hands and he yelped, in

surprise, in shock at sudden raw agony but it told him

one thing, one certainty: it hurt like a bastard, and that

meant he was alive. This was no dream. Kell narrowed

his eyes and gritted his teeth and fell through Skaringa

Dak – dived, through the heart of the mountain.

Tunnels flashed past. Some lit with mineral deposits.

Some were huge, caverns dissecting the tunnel through

which Kell fell and he thought, where is all the water?

And he realised, a flood, a flood of magick, drowning Silva

Valley, drowning the vachine civilisation… and then he hit

another curve, which slowed him, and he was sent

tumbling through air and darkness and plunged into

water so cold he gasped, ice-needles driving through his

eyeballs and brain and numbing him. He was deep

16 VAMPIRE WARLORDS

under, and he clung to Ilanna. I will not let you go, I will

not lose you, my love. With a sudden spurt of anger Kell

punched upwards, powerful legs kicking, and he broke

the surface with a splutter and desperate intake of air.

He went under again, but fought upwards and as he

gasped and breathed, he saw the nearby glow and

kicked out for it, his strokes urgent, cold battering

through his old bones.

It was a beach, of sorts. Kell kicked and struggled,

then flopped uselessly onto his back, great chest heav-

ing. Kell had never been one for swimming, and he

hated the water with a vengeance.

Pain and fear ran rampant through his blood, and

Kell pushed himself to an upright position and cleared

his nostrils with snorts, head spinning. He heard some-

thing then, a crying, a thrashing in the underground

lake. Nienna!

Dropping his axe, Kell surged back towards the freez-

ing lake. “Nienna!” he boomed, and his voice

reverberated back a hundred times more powerful, a

cackling of demons.

“Grandfather!” shrieked the young woman, “I’ve got

Saark, help, he’s dragging me under!”

Kell kicked off his boots, muttering darkly, and with

the surreal and ghostly glow behind, leapt back in to

the freezing waters, powering over to Nienna and tak-

ing the dead-weight of Saark’s body from struggling

hands. Kell struck back for the shore, Nienna following,

and they lay there on the black sand panting, ex-

hausted, shivering with core-biting cold, and Kell rolled

Saark to one side and growled and said, “You should

ANDY REMIC 17

have let him sink. What sense, Nienna, in rescuing a

corpse?”

“He’s not dead,” panted Nienna.

“I watched them carve out his heart!” snapped Kell,

weary now, and crawled and stood, and rubbed his

hands together. “Of course he’s dead! Now we need a

fire, girl, or we’ll also die in but a few short hours.”

“But…”

“Nienna! Stand up! Get moving. Keep moving.”

She stood, and they looked around. The shore of the

vast underground lake seemed to stretch off for eter-

nity. The cavern was vast, endless, and the glow came

from eerie stalactites and stalagmites which sat cloaked

in some kind of fungus. Kell moved to one, and peeled

back a little. He sniffed it. He touched it to his tongue.

“I hope it burns. Because,” he gazed around, long grey

hair plastered to his shivering scalp, “if it doesn’t, we’re

going to die down here.”

The beach was littered with stones and rocks, of a

million different descriptions, all washed up over mil-

lennia. Kell set Nienna to gathering the glowing fungi,

and he found several rocks, striking them together until

he found a combination that gave a spark. Back from

the water, near a cluster of flowstone and stalagmites,

Nienna piled the scraped fungus and Kell knelt, feeling

foolish, shivering violently. He struck sparks in the fun-

gus, and on the fourth attempt it glowed, and flames

flickered. An odd-smelling smoke rose and heat blos-

somed from glowing flame-petals. Kell glanced up. “Get

more,” he said.

“Bring Saark to the fire,” said Nienna.

18 VAMPIRE WARLORDS

Kell ground his teeth in annoyance, but gave a nod.

He moved back down to the lapping shore. He bent,

and lifted the dandy, and retrieved his axe. He carried

both back to this odd subterranean campsite and threw

down the axe. He laid Saark out. Saark’s eyes opened.

“Thanks, old man,” he said, voice a hoarse whisper.

“Thought you were going to leave me out there to die.”

“Saark! Gods, man! You tough little cockroach!” Kell

moved Saark closer to the flames, and stared in awe at

the savage chest wound. He could see Saark’s heart

beating within, pulsating with very, very slow thumps.

Kell shivered. Saark was a hair’s-breadth from death.

Nienna returned, and they piled more fungus on the

fire. Flames roared and within minutes steam was rising

from their sodden clothes. Saark’s eyes had closed, and

Kell gestured to Nienna. They stepped away from the

fire.

“There is nothing I can do for him,” he said, sadness

buried in his eyes, in his voice. “I wish there was, Ni-

enna, truly I do. It is a miracle he has lasted this long.

He must have lost a lot of blood.”

“Can you not stitch him? I’ve seen you sew wounds

before!”

“No, Little One. It is too wide. It’s straight through

the bone. We must… sit with him. But when it is time

to move on, well…” Kell gripped his axe tight, trying

to convey understanding through gesture.

Nienna understood clearly, and she punched Kell on

the arm. “No!” she hissed. “You’re not going to kill him!

I won’t let you.”

“We cannot take him with us, girl. Look around you!

ANDY REMIC 19

I doubt very much we will survive. How foolish, to try

and drag a guaranteed corpse.”

“He may be a guaranteed corpse to you,” said Ni-

enna, eyes cold, voice in the tombworld, “but he’s a fine

friend to me, and I will not leave him. You go if you

wish, grandfather. But I will find a way to get Saark back

to the sunshine.”

Kell sighed, and watched Nienna return to Saark. He

ground his teeth, and rubbed at his temples, and moved

back to the fire as the chill of the underground cavern

bit him with tiny fangs. She has the stubbornness of her

mother in her, he thought bitterly, but that only led to

further painful memories, of ancient days, and Sara,

and Kell closed that door with a violent shove.

Saark moaned, and his eyes fluttered open. “Where am

I?” he murmured.

“You should be dead,” growled Kell.

“Nice to see you, too, you old bastard.”

“I’m simply being honest,” prickled the aged axeman.

Saark coughed, and Kell rubbed at his beard. “I

reckon we’ll need to be moving soon. Don’t want those

Vampire Warlords ramming claws up my arse.”

“How long have we been stranded?”

“A day, maybe.”

“If they wanted us, they would have found us,” said

Saark, voice a croak, eyes watering. “Is there anything

to eat?”

“No.”

“Anything to drink?”

“Just brackish, oily water. At least the lake will sus-

20 VAMPIRE WARLORDS

tain us.”

Saark laughed, then grimaced in pain. “You bring me

to the finest places, Kell.”

“Yeah, well, we ain’t married yet, are we?”

“At least you acknowledge there might still be time.

Ha!”

“Not whilst I’m breathing, lad.”

“Where’s Nienna?”

“Gathering more fungus. It burns well, but with a

strange smell.”

“I recognise that smell, Kell. It’s drugsmoke. You’re

keeping us all high. Well done, that man. I thought my

pain had receded; it’s because I’ve been inhaling a nat-

ural narcotic for the last few hours. Don’t you feel the

buzz?”

Kell bared his teeth, face eerie by the light of the fire

and the glowing, fungus-covered stalagmites. “Yes. But

what you’re feeling – that may be the smoke, I agree,

or it could just be the vachine blood which now runs

through your veins in a torrent.”

There was an awkward silence.

“Listen,” said Saark, finally, eyes shifting uneasily.

Kell placed his hand on Saark’s, and patted him.

“Don’t you worry, lad. I know you think I’m an insane

vachine killer… well, I am an insane vachine killer, but

you’re one of us. You’re a friend. I promise to you, here

and now, on my honour, on my blood, on my axe, that

I will not kill you – vachine, or no vachine. That settle

you?”

Saark coughed. Blood rimed his lips. “Thank you. But

you do not know what you promise. You do not know

ANDY REMIC 21

how it feels.”

“Explain it to me.”

“Wait. Somebody’s coming.”

“How can…”

Saark grinned. “Vachine senses. They are good, Kell.

Very good.”

Kell rose, Ilanna in his great fists, and scanned the

black shoreline with narrowed eyes. If it was the Vam-

pire Warlords, immortal deities or no, Kell would give

them a taste of his axe they’d never damn well forget!

And if it was General Graal come sniffing around

after blood and violence? Kell smiled, a nasty smile on

such a wise, old, ravaged face. Well, Graal had it coming

from a long way off.

A figure picked its way carefully along the shoreline,

gradually materialising into a woman. She was tall,

limbs wiry and strong, but whereas once she had

sported short, cropped black hair, now it was long, gen-

tly curled, and luscious like the pelt of a panther.

Whereas once her features were gaunt, ravaged by can-

cer, sunken eyes and narrow bloodless lips, her flesh

stretched like ancient, oil-stained parchment, now her

skin was smooth and pale like marble, her face proud

with high cheekbones and glittering dark eyes. She was

a striking figure. A beautiful woman. She had the tiny,

pointed teeth of the vachine. The gentle, slow tick tick

tick of the machine vampire. A clockwork vampire.

“Myriam!” snarled Kell, and readied himself for bat-

tle.

Myriam approached, warily, both hands held wide to

show open palms, no weapons. Her eyes met Kell’s,

22 VAMPIRE WARLORDS

and she knew there was death waiting there; but then

her eyes met Saark’s, and a smile touched her lips.

“He is still alive,” she said, voice no longer the croak

of the dying.

“No thanks to you, vachine bitch. Arm yourself, Myr-

iam, because by all the gods I’ll cut you from head to

quim, whether armed or no.”

“I have not come to fight,” she said, stopping, boots

crunching on the stones of the dark beach. “If I’d

wanted you dead, I could have picked you off from five

hundred paces with my bow. And you know that’s true,

old man.”

Kell grinned. “Yeah. Well. I don’t die easy.” He moved

forward, lowering his head, face full of rage and thun-

der, Ilanna lifting a little and seeming to glow black in

anticipation of battle. Myriam had betrayed them, al-

lowed Kell and Saark and Nienna to be caught by the

Soul Stealers, aided in their capture by the Soul Stealers

and delivered to General Graal trussed up like festival

turkeys for summary execution. She was the enemy,

through and through. She was a vachine contortion. A

puppet. She must die.

“No!” screeched Nienna, dropping her armfuls of

fungus and racing across the beach to stand before Kell.

She held her arms wide. “No, Kell, no! Don’t do this.”

“Get out of my way, child, or you’ll feel the back of

my hand.”

“Hard brave words from the Black Axeman of Dren-

nach!” she sneered. “Such heroic spit to threaten a little

girl.”

Kell focused on Nienna for the first time. “She will

ANDY REMIC 23

betray us. She is the enemy. She must die. Have you

forgotten so easily what happened on the bridge? I have

not.”

“Hear her out, grandfather.” Nienna’s voice softened.

“Please? She has her bow. I’ve seen how incredible she

is with that weapon – devastating! She could have eas-

ily killed us from afar – all of us.”

“Girl, you are fast becoming a thorn in my side!” Kell

snapped, but lowered his axe, aware he was putty in

her fingers, and knowing deep in his soul he would re-

gret allowing Myriam to live.

“Yes, but surely I’m a thorn on a rose?” she said

sweetly, and turned to Myriam. There were tears in Ni-

enna’s eyes. “Myriam? You have come to help?”

“Yes, child,” said Myriam, and smiled, and there was

love in her eyes. “Kell released me. From imprison-

ment. From thrall. From slavery.”

“Explain,” growled Kell.

“When you killed the Soul Stealers, Kell. They in-

fected me with their blood-oil, their disease, and used

clockwork to change me into a full vachine. I was theirs

to command, not just through words or gratitude, but

by – it is hard to explain. They took a part of my soul,

and I took theirs. We were joined. I could not refuse

them; Shanna and Tashmaniok were a drug for me. I

was their marionette. But when you killed them, I was

dazed for a while, and then their essence faded back to

the Chaos Halls and I was set free. And then I saw the

Vampire Warlords, I listened to their words, and I was

filled with an absolute terror. I ran, Kell. I was fright-

ened. I slipped away from Helltop and came looking for

24 VAMPIRE WARLORDS

you. Believe it or not, you people are the only family I

have.”

Kell grunted, and slumped down beside Saark, who

was panting heavily. “Well, you’ve found us in a sorry

mess. I hope those bastard vampires don’t come after

us, for we are in no real state to defend.”

Myriam moved forward, keeping a wary eye on Kell

and his axe. “May I examine Saark’s wound?”

“Go ahead. The lad will be dead by tomorrow.” He

fixed a beady eye on Myriam. “And you had a great

part to play in that, girl.”

Myriam knelt, and peeled back the torn linen pad

which Kell had placed over the wound. “It has begun

to heal,” said Myriam.

“Nonsense,” snapped Kell. “And even if the flesh

healed, I’ve seen wounds like that before on the battle-

field; he’ll surely be riddled with infection. Gangrene

will set in turning his flesh into a stinking putty. He will

die, horribly, there is no doubt. And in a great amount

of pain.”

“Kell, shut up!” breathed Saark, scowling. His eyes

fixed on Myriam’s. “What’s happening to me?”

“It is the vachine blood-oil in your veins. You have

changed, Saark. You already know this. You now pos-

sess accelerated healing powers, and no infection will

touch your tainted blood.” She glanced at Kell. “The old

man is wrong. There will be no gangrene for you; no

maggot-filled infections. Your flesh is clean, because no

bacteria can face the vampire parasite.”

“Why so?” asked Kell, intrigued.

Myriam gave a small smile. “His flesh is cursed. No

ANDY REMIC 25

infection will touch him. Nienna! Bring me some of the

fungus; the more yellow, the better.”

Nienna carried some to the hunter and knelt by her

side, watching carefully. “Can you help save him?” she

said, voice soft, eyes wide. Nienna was in a permanent

state of shock; she had seen too much death. Her child-

hood had been stripped away like bark from a tree,

leaving her scarred and naked.

“Watch.” Myriam tore the fungus into pieces, and

taking a flat rock, began to crumble it between her brass

vachine claws. “Mulgeth weed, it also grows in the

Stone Lion Woods – in the cold, dark, damp places. It

has many precious properties for those who live in the

wilds.”

“It burns well,” said Kell, “although I wouldn’t smoke

it in a pipe, that’s for sure.”

“Some physicians use it,” said Myriam. She opened

her pack, now at her side, and removed a tin cup. “Ni-

enna, run down and gather water from the lake,” she

said, handing the cup. She turned back to Kell. “Mul-

geth weed removes pain, aids in healing, and yes, we

can even eat it. But if one was to use it for too long, it

would destroy a person’s brain from the inside out; it

delivers a slack jaw and permanent yellow drool. Soon,

any such over-indulging individual would be down the

Shit Pits at the docks shovelling fish-heads for a living.”

Kell leaned close to Saark. “Hear that, lad? No down-

sides for you, then.”

“Kiss my rosy arse, Kell,” he coughed, wincing in

agony.

Nienna returned, and dripping water into the

26 VAMPIRE WARLORDS

crushed Mulgeth weed, Myriam kneaded it into a thick

paste. Then, she leant forward and packed the hole in

Saark’s chest with gentle fingers. He groaned, a low

sound of agony, and once Myriam had filled the hole

she covered the wound with a bandage taken from her

pack. She took another pouch, and from this a small,

brown glass vial. She unstoppered it, and dripped a sin-

gle drop of clear liquid into Saark’s open mouth. Within

seconds, he was snoring.

Myriam turned to Kell. “Now we must discuss

Falanor. We must stop these Vampire Warlords.”

Kell snorted. “We are trapped under the mountains,

lass. What would you have me do? Topple the damn

peaks on their heads?” Then his eyes turned dark. “And

your words are fine and brave, coming from one who

fled the enemy. Fled from them, yes, or maybe, instead,

you are still in league with Graal and his bastards?”

“No,” said Myriam. “The Vampire Warlords, they are

terrible indeed. Dark creatures from the Chaos Halls.

They were banished there once before, but Graal and

Kradek-ka brought them back using blood-oil magick

to open a portal! But I know their plans, Kell. I heard

enough, before I was able to slip out down the passages

into Skaringa Dak. I heard enough to bring the infor-

mation to you!”

“Go on,” said Kell, listening, brow furrowed. “But

that part of your story where the mighty Kell saves

Falanor and rides home on the arse-flanks of a pig car-

rying the severed heads of three Vampire Warlords in a

tattered old onion sack, and sucking on the honeyed

teat of a rescued virgin, well it needs to be excised right

ANDY REMIC 27

at the start.”

“Grandfather, listen to her,” said Nienna, sitting

cross-legged on a stone. “What have you got to lose?”

“All our lives?” suggested Kell, but muttered some-

thing unheard and scratched his beard. At least the oily

lake had sluiced him clear of blood, gore and vachine

brains, vachine clockwork. He was feeling barely

human, for a change. “Go on girl, let’s hear it. Then I’ll

focus on getting my granddaughter clear of this unholy

shit-hole, and back to some semblance of sanity.”

“Not in Falanor, you won’t,” said Myriam, voice soft.

She glanced down at Saark, face now relaxed in peace,

then back to the old, grizzled warrior. “There are three

of them. Kuradek the Unholy, with a passionate hatred

for all human religions. His favourite pastime was

slaughtering monks and ladies of the cloth; or even

worse, changing them into vampires and letting them

loose on their colleagues. He burned churches and tem-

ples to the ground, then would eat their ashes, laughing

that his shit would be baptised in holy fire. Now, he in-

tends to return to the northern city of Jalder. He will

control the northern half of Falanor, and build up his

army of albinos and… and vampires.”

“They killed everybody in Jalder,” said Kell, voice

cold and hard. “I was there. I saw it.”

“No, Kell. They killed many in Jalder. But men are

more resilient than you give them credit. They hid. In

cellars and attics and warehouses. In the sewer systems,

in the shit cauldrons of the tanneries. Kell, many sur-

vived, trust me. Kuradek knows this, and he will hunt

them down, turn them into his vampire slaves. Into

28 VAMPIRE WARLORDS

parasitical puppets he can control.”

Kell took a deep breath. He thought of his few friends

in Jalder, old men, old warriors from back at Crake’s

Wall, Jangir Field, the Siege of Drennach, and the Battle

of Valantrium Moor. If any could have survived the ice-

smoke, then surely these were the men?

“I don’t know,” said Kell, slowly. “It was a miracle I

survived the invasion. If it had not been for Ilanna…”

“This is what Graal told Kuradek. This is what I

heard.”

Kell nodded. “And what of the other two bastards?

They going to set up a nursery and wean baby vampires

with bottles of blood?”

“No, Kell. Meshwar the Violent will head south, rule

Falanor’s capital, the city of Vor. There, Graal believes

even more rebels survived the ice-smoke invasion.

There are thousands of tunnels beneath the city, a huge

and sprawling complex. When Graal’s invasion began,

many fled into the tunnel and sewer network. Many

hid. And Vor is vast, as you well know. It is Meshwar’s

job to hunt down these people, weed them out, turn

them into his vampire horde.”

“And the third?”

“Bhu Vanesh. The Eater in the Dark. He is a hunter,

from the old days,” said Myriam, and she rubbed at her

eyes, weary now despite her vachine blood. Terror

edged her words, and Kell noticed a slight tremor to her

hand. If she was faking her fear, then she was a very

good actress. But then, Kell had met many a good ac-

tress in his years of battle across Falanor. He’d killed a

few, as well; on stage, and off.

ANDY REMIC 29

“And what is his wonderful plan?”

“He will seek to take control of the Port of Gol-

lothrim.”

“Ship building?” said Kell darkly, brow furrowed. “He

would seek to expand their dirty little empire west? He

wants transport for his army, doesn’t he, Myriam?”

“Yes. His albino slaves and vampires will take the ex-

isting navy, and also build him an extended fleet of

ships. With this new, mammoth navy they will head

west across the Salarl Ocean – expand their Vampire

Dominion across the world!”

“What of Graal?”

“He will go with Bhu Vanesh. Oversee the ship-build-

ing. One could say he has been… demoted. Graal

thought he could control the Vampire Warlords. But

they are all-powerful. They have other plans.”

“Graal always was an arrogant bastard. And I didn’t

get to carve my name on his arse with my axe. Not yet,

anyways. Still, l at least carved him a new cheek flap.”

“Graal was less than complimentary about that,” said

Myriam, flashing a dark smile. Her eyes met Kell’s.

“You understand what all this means, axeman? You do

understand?”

Kell sighed. It was a sigh from deep down in a dark

place weary of carrying the weight of the world. “I’m a

retired soldier,” he said. “I’m a simple man, a man of

bread and cheese, of coarse wine and nostalgic memo-

ries of battle. It was never meant to be this way. I was

supposed to live out my final years in Jalder, see this

young lady through university, maybe travel the Black

Pikes one last time before dotage crushed my rotten

30 VAMPIRE WARLORDS

teeth in his fist, and watched my mind dribble out my

ears.”

“We have to stop them,” said Nienna, who had been

listening, quietly, head to one side. Her eyes flashed

dark.

“We cannot,” said Kell.

“You can!” snapped Nienna. “If anybody can halt this

madness, Kell the Legend can!” Hope was bright in her

eyes. Her hands and lips trembled. Her focus was com-

plete.

Kell shook his head. “I’m an old man, Nienna,” he

said gently. “My back hurts in the cold. My knees hurt

on stairs. My shoulder is an agony every time I lift the

damned axe. And, and this will amuse you, Myriam,

for it is your damn fault… the poison is still in my blood-

stream. The poison you put there. Lingering, like a

maggot under a rock.”

“I gave you the antidote,” said Myriam, her lips nar-

rowing.

“Which does not always work?” Kell raised his eye-

brows. Myriam remained silent, chewing her lip. “I

thought not. With your eagerness to become a vachine,

you killed me, woman, as sure as putting a dagger

through my heart. Your antidote bought me time. But

the evil liquor is still there: in my veins, in my organs,

in my bones. I can feel it. Eating me, slow and hot, like

an apothecary’s acid.”

“I am so, so sorry about that,” said Myriam, but knew

her words meant nothing. She had been dying, from a

cancer riddling her every bone. To coerce Kell into help-

ing her, she poisoned him with a rare toxin from a

ANDY REMIC 31

breed of Trickla flowers found far out west beyond the

Salarl Ocean. Her antidote, however, had not been

enough; or maybe the poison had been rampant in

Kell’s system for too long. What did he have now?

Weeks? Months? A year? By saving herself, Myriam

had effectively condemned Falanor’s greatest hope.

Falanor’s last true hero. Myriam felt this irony slide

through her like honey through a sponge, and she

smiled a dry smile, a bitter smile. By her actions, Myr-

iam may have condemned the world.

“I do not believe it,” said Nienna finally, placing

hands on hips. Her eyes were narrowed, brows dark

with thunder. “Are you sure, grandfather? Sure about

all this? I watched you fight those Soul Stealers. You

killed them! Like they were children!”

Kell laughed sharply. “Oh, how the young do so ro-

manticise. They almost had me, girl; if it had not been

for Skanda’s help, I would be slaughtered horse-meat

on a butcher’s worn wooden slab.” His gaze transferred

to Myriam. “You came here for help. To help yourself,

yes, through fear of your new masters; but to help

Falanor was an after-thought. I am sorry, Myriam. Bat-

tle weighs heavy on my old body, and my twisted mind.

There is nothing I can do. For once, Falanor must help

Herself.”

Myriam bowed her head. Tears lay like silk on her

cheeks. “So be it, Kell,” she whispered.

They travelled for hours down narrow tunnels barely

wide enough to accommodate Nienna. Eventually,

when exhaustion crept upon Myriam, the hardy and

32 VAMPIRE WARLORDS

seemingly tireless vachine, and Nienna was like the

walking dead, they called a stop in a small alcove. It was

cold, and damp, but then so were all the tunnels under

Skaringa Dak.

Nienna lay, wrapped in a thin blanket, her finger

stump throbbing. After an albino soldier amputated her

finger in retaliation for Kell’s defiance after they had

been taken prisoner, events had moved so fast, so fran-

tic, she had barely a moment to consider her new

severance. But now. Now, despite her exhaustion, sleep

would not come. Her eyes moved through the darkness

lit by strange mineral lodes, and came to rest first on

Kell, snoring, lost in the realms of distant dreams and

memories and battles; then on to Myriam, breath hiss-

ing past her small, pointed fangs. Vampire fangs. Vachine

fangs. Nienna rubbed at her finger, and winced as pain

flared up her hand, up her arm. Kell had expertly

stitched the wound, the amputation, slicing a flap of skin

and pulling it over the neatly cut bone. He had tears in

his eyes. Tears of sorrow, but also of guilt. He blamed

himself. He felt completely responsible. And Nienna

supposed he was, to a large extent; but then, if he was

to blame for the loss of Nienna’s little finger, he was also

to blame for saving her life time after time after time.

She could forgive him one small mistake, if mistake it

was. She grimaced. In war, they all had to make sacri-

fices. And at least she was still alive.

Nienna rubbed her finger. It had been the most

painful moment of her life, and the act of butchery, the

look on the albino soldier’s face – well, it was some-

thing she would never forget. Just like Kat’s murder

ANDY REMIC 33

34 VAMPIRE WARLORDS

was something she would never forget. The vachine,

the cankers, the soldiers, the battles – her grandfather

striding with axe in hand, with Ilanna in hand, and

turning from an affectionate old soldier, a retired old

soldier, white-haired, funny, loving, ruffling her hair,

cooking vegetable soup, polishing her boots with spit

and polish and hard elbow grease, chastising her for ne-

glecting her studies, nagging at her to smarten up her

clothes, eat better food, be nice to her mother even

when her mother shouted at her, neglected her, al-

lowed her to starve. Nienna laughed bitterly. Oh yes.

Her mother. A good strong woman, everybody said. A

religious woman. Pious. When she died, she had earned

a place in the Bright Halls. But Nienna remembered a

different aspect to her character. Nienna’s mother,

Kell’s daughter – Sara, the daughter who had disowned

Kell and swore never to speak to him again. Well, to

Nienna she was a cold woman. A hard woman. A

woman of iron principles. A woman who made Ni-

enna’s flesh creep, made her hackles rise, a woman

who’d made her life a misery with constant religious

studies, muttered prayers and the eternal, submissive

worshipping of the bloody gods!

Damn the gods, thought Nienna.

Let them burn in the furnaces of the Blood Void!

Let them rot in the Chaos Halls!

Yes. Kell might be a hard man, a drinker of whiskey,

a pugilist, he might be a butcher and all the other things

people called him – and what she had seen. But he had

a core of goodness, Nienna knew. He had a kind heart.

A kinder soul. And to her, no matter how others tried

to deviate matters, he was still a hero. He was Kell. Kell,

the Legend.

Sleep finally came.

And with it came a dream, a dark dream, a dream in

which Bhu Vanesh hunted her, panting and giggling

through a dark, deserted city, through empty streets

and temples and cathedrals, running over slick greasy

cobbles. And as he caught her, his fangs gleamed and

he reached for her succulent throat…

As Nienna tossed and turned in her sleep, so Myr-

iam’s eyes flickered open. She uncurled, like a snake

unfurling from the base of an apple tree. Myriam stood,

and stretched, revelling in the feel of new muscles, new

bones, and the death of the cancer within. How could

cancer survive in a being which was itself a predator?

A cancer on civilisation? How could cancer cells eat her

own, when her new vachine cells were far more ag-

gressive and vicious and violent than anything Nature

could possibly conjure? Where Nature had failed, man

had stepped forward. Myriam’s eyes narrowed. In her

opinion, the vachine were the pinnacle of evolution. It

could get no better than this.

Gently, she reached down. Beneath Kell’s arm was

sheathed his Svian, his reserve blade for when Ilanna

was lost. It was also, according to ancient, esoteric leg-

ends (although Kell would never admit it as such), a

ritual suicide blade. For when times got bad. Real bad.

Myriam withdrew the Svian. The pattern of Kell’s

snoring altered, then he snorted and relaxed again, and

she toyed with the blade for a few moments, running

her finger up and down the razor edge. A bead of blood

ANDY REMIC 35

appeared on her pale white finger. She licked it clear,

tongue stained berry-red for just an instant. Then it was

gone, the blood-oil was gone, and she gave a little

shiver.

Inside Myriam, something went click. She felt the

rhythm of springs and counter-weights. She felt the

spin of gears. She felt the stepping of advanced clock-

work mechanisms, entwined with her flesh, her bones,

her organs. And Myriam revelled in her advanced evolu-

tion.

Could she let anything get in the way of her vachine

existence?

Could she let Kell get in the way?

Of course not.

And something pulsed deep in her mind. In her

heart. In her clockwork.

She felt the need growing. Growing strong. And Myr-

iam did so need to feed. It burned her, like a brand. Like

birth. Like death. Like existence. Existence.

Myriam lifted the Svian blade. It glinted in the re-

flected luminescence of the mineral-layered walls.

Her eyes shifted to Kell.

And her smile was a cruel, bloodless slit…

36 VAMPIRE WARLORDS

General Graal was sucked through the blood-magick

lines, and it felt like dying, and felt like being born, and

eventually he was lying on a cold tile floor in a kitchen,

staring up at the smoke-stained, wood-beamed ceiling

in the High Fortress at Port of Gollothrim. The High

Fortress. He smiled a sickly smile. It was also known lo-

cally as Warlord’s Tower.

The world was a blur for Graal. First, he could smell

woodsmoke. Then he could smell the sea, a distant tang

of salt, the taste of fresh sea breeze. Stunned, for the

blood-oil magick sending was like being punched into

the earth by the fist of a giant, Graal gradually fought

for his senses to return. He heard distraught sobbing.

He breathed, breathed deep, and inside him clockwork

went tick, tick, tick.

Graal moved his head to the left. Kradek-ka lay un-

conscious, blood leaking from his eyes. His flesh was

pale and waxen, and at first Graal thought he was dead

– until he heard a tiny stepping of gears, witnessed the

gentle rising of Kradek-ka’s chest. Then Graal looked

CHAPTER TWO

Warlords

37

right, and jumped at the savagery of the sight…

Bhu Vanesh was there, seven feet tall, narrow,

smoke-filled, long arms and legs crooked. One hand

held a limp figure, a plump woman bent over back-

wards, blood dripping freely from where her throat had

been entirely ripped out. Her eyes, dead glass eyes,

were staring straight at Graal. He shivered. Bhu Vanesh

turned a little, as if sensing Graal’s return to conscious-

ness. Blood-slit eyes regarded him, but Bhu Vanesh did

not break from his task: the task of feeding. His second

hand held another woman, this time slim, petite al-

most, and wearing the white apron of a kitchen

attendant. She had long blonde hair, very fine, like silk,

which spilled back from her tight entrapment revealing

her throat, pale and punctured and quivering.

As Bhu Vanesh sucked vigorously on the plump

woman, his eyes watched Graal. Graal stared back. Then

Graal’s gaze shifted to the slim blonde woman’s eyes,

and they were frightened, face contorted in pain. Her

hands were clenching and unclenching, and for a mo-

ment Graal felt sympathy which was instantly dashed

against the jagged towering shoreline of his cruelty.

Graal stood, and watched, and knew with a malicious

joy that Bhu Vanesh was weak. Weak from the Chaos

Halls. Weak from travelling the lines of blood-oil mag-

ick; the Lines of the Land.

Eventually, the plump woman closed her eyes. She

shuddered. She died. Bhu Vanesh withdrew his fangs

with squelches, and dropping the plump kitchen

woman with a newly slashed throat, he lay the blonde

on the kitchen tiles, and slit his own wrist with a talon.

38 VAMPIRE WARLORDS

The black and grey smoke coiled back, and a thick syrup

oozed free. He allowed this to drop into the slim

blonde’s mouth, and then knelt back on haunches and

watched. Graal said nothing. There was nothing to say.

The blonde started to writhe and contort, her body

spasming, trembling, muscles growing taut then slack,

taut then slack. Black oil seemed to bubble at her

mouth, then flowed out of her eyes and ears and quim,

staining her white uniform and pooling under her body.

Graal looked left, out through a narrow window. He

was uncomfortable watching the vampire change. It re-

minded him too much of his youth, and some very bad

times. Bad times which had been excised from his

memories – until now.

Graal observed the dawn, a wintry grey-blue sky. Dis-

tantly, he could make out the sea, and a phalanx of

seagulls crying as they swept past his vision. Gol-

lothrim. The Port of Gollothrim. The Fortress. Was it

still occupied? Graal shivered. They’d soon find out…

Returning his gaze, he saw the transformation was

complete. The blonde woman stood, and seemed un-

easy in her shell. Her eyes were now black – jet black,

and unnaturally glossy as if filled with a cankerous

honey. This, this was the sign of a Vampire Warlord’s

servant. Graal remembered, now, his thoughts flowing

back through a long history, a longer deviation.

“You.” Graal was snapped back to the living, the pres-

ent, and realised Bhu Vanesh was pointing at him.

Graal stared for a moment, then glanced at the woman.

She was smiling, showing her own vampire fangs.

Dead, but alive. The undead. Not like the sophisticated

ANDY REMIC 39

clockwork vachine at all…

“Yes?” snapped Graal, anger flooding him. Anger,

and bitterness, and regret. What had he done? He

glanced down at the waxen figure of Kradek-ka. What

had they done?

“Take Lorna to the Division General’s quarters. He is

here. I can smell his fear. Lorna will begin my recruit-

ment. She is the First.”

“Yes.”

“And Graal?” Bhu Vanesh’s voice was a low, low

rumble. Those red eyes cut through Graal’s nerve like

an assassin’s garrotte.

“Yes, Warlord?”

“Forget your manners again, and I will cut off your

head and suck out your brains.”

Graal paled. He bowed his head a fraction. “Yes, War-

lord.”

A winter sea breeze caressed the stone corridors of

Port Gollothrim’s High Fortress as Graal led Lorna, this

newly baptised and transformed vampire, towards the

central control point of this south-western Falanor city.

Prior to the Vampire Warlords’ resurrection, Graal’s

Army of Iron had not made it this far; which meant, in

theory, the population of the city was sound. Those,

that is, who had not fled after Vor was sundered.

Graal paused, and stared from a high window. Below,

the city appeared deserted. And then he saw them, a

group of rough-looking men down by the seafront.

Huge walls lined the front, presumably to halt high

tides or violent storms. Graal’s eyes strayed, and he saw

a woman, further down. She carried a babe in her arms,

40 VAMPIRE WARLORDS

and walked quickly, nervously, looking often over her

shoulder. She reached a small line of cottages and

ducked quickly into a doorway. So. Port Gollothrim was

still home to… Graal smiled. Fresh meat. Templates.

Vampire templates. But where were the soldiers? Called

away to fight his Army of Iron, in Vor? Possibly.

Graal rubbed his chin. His torn cheek was stinging,

but even now he could feel accelerated vachine flesh

knitting together. He would be healed by the next

morning.

He felt Lorna’s eyes on him. He turned. “What are

you looking at?”

“A nervous man.”

Graal stared, hard, then smiled a cold thin-lipped

smile. “So, Lorna, bitch, Bhu Vanesh’s First, born

straight into our world of horror by simply being in the

wrong place at the wrong time. You think you are so

powerful? Let us see you perform. Perform, like a danc-

ing monkey jerking on the puppeteer’s strings.”

Lorna’s head tilted, and she observed Graal, and he

felt the clockwork of his heart accelerate a little. Then

she turned, and Graal led her no more. She moved fast,

bare feet padding the cold stone flags, white kitchen

apron stained with blood and the black gore from Bhu

Vanesh’s veins. Her neck showed the twin bites of the

vampire. Her skin glowed in an ironic mockery of life.

Now, Graal followed. Lorna needed no guidance.

She accelerated, and Graal had to jog to keep up.

Down long corridors, up steps, until they burst into the

Division General’s chambers and surprised the five men

there. Division General Dekull stood beside a large pol-

ANDY REMIC 41

ished oak table, with four other men; all wore military

uniforms of black and silver bearing the Falanor crest.

The table was filled with maps, and several glasses of

half-drained wine.

Dekull, a large man with bull-neck and over-red

complexion, thinning brown hair and large hands,

stared for a moment in abject confusion. “Who the hell

are you?” he growled, red-face forming into the frown

of a man who did not take interruptions lightly. Then

Lorna squealed in sudden bloodlust, real blood lust, and

a burst of energy fired her and leapt at him, fastening

arms and legs around him, teeth lusting for his jugular.

He staggered back, knocking the table over. Wine

spilled across maps. He tried to grapple with the new-

born vampire, but there came a sudden crack as she

snapped his arm like tinder, and Division General

Dekull screamed, high-pitched and animal, and this

slammed the other men into action. They drew swords

and charged as Graal watched impassively from the

doorway.

Four swords slashed at Lorna in quick succession, as

her knees came up, bare feet on Dekull’s chest and she

kicked up and backwards, through a somersault, land-

ing behind one soldier. Swords clanged together in

discord. Lorna’s fist punched into one man, and through

him, bursting free of his chest in a splatter of blood. She

stood, holding his jiggling body upright, then let him

fall as the three remaining men leapt back, faces uncer-

tain, eyes narrowed. Lorna took a long lick of slick

blood from her elbow to her still-clenched fist. Her

black eyes gleamed.

42 VAMPIRE WARLORDS

“Come on,” she growled, voice feral and husky.

One man screamed and charged, and she deflected

his sword blow on her left arm where the razor-edge

peeled her skin back like flesh from soft-braised pork.

Her right hand dropped, grabbed his crotch, and ripped

back hard detaching chainmail trews, penis and testes

in one mangled lump. The other two men edged to-

wards the door, then one, Command Sergeant Wood,

turned and kicked his way savagely through the leaded

window. He climbed out onto a high ledge and disap-

peared from view. The final man dropped his sword

with a clatter. Division General Dekull was kneeling,

blood pooled around him, nursing his broken arm.

Bone protruded from flesh, a savage break, a sharp stick

pointing at the roof.

Lorna strode to the surrendered soldier, and knelt be-

fore him. She seemed almost tender. The man, a young

commissioned officer named Shurin, trembled as urine

leaked down his legs and pooled around his feet. It

stank bad.

“I didn’t mean it,” Shurin whispered, eyes imploring.

“I beg forgiveness.”

“There is no forgiveness,” said Lorna, and he was on

his knees before her and she took his face in her hands,

a palm against each cheek and she was smiling and

Shurin’s piss gurgled as it swilled around them, and she

pulled his face towards her, as if they were parted lovers

returned for a final kiss; then she lowered her fangs,

and they sank into his flesh, and he screamed and

began to kick, to struggle savagely in the nature of any

trapped beast and the piss-stink of the coward. Lorna

ANDY REMIC 43

sucked Shurin, and drank him hard, and left his de-

flated corpse like a limp doll on the flagstones.

Lorna stood. She licked blood from her lips. She ra-

diated power.

Graal was examining his fingernails, his air one of

debonair cool, his eyes detached from the bloody scene

before him. He knew the situation; understood it inher-

ently. Until Lorna killed, and fed, she was not true

vampire. Now, with this fresh intake of blood, she was

almost there. Almost. Now, in the same way the va-

chine used clockwork to finalise their victims’

transformation to vachine, Lorna had to make her own

slave; her own ghoul. It was the Law of the Vampire.

One of the Old Laws. For the vampires were a race of

the enslaved…

Lorna was advancing on the barely conscious figure

of Division General Dekull. His broken arm cast odd

shadows against the wall. Outside, the winter sun was

a copper pan pushed into the sky.

“You missed one.”

“What?” Lorna’s head snapped round.

Graal looked up. Gestured to the window. “You

missed one. Sloppy.”

“I saw no help from you,” she snarled, blood still slick

on her fangs and causing her frail blonde hair to clump

in rat tails around her face.

“This is not my freakshow,” smiled Graal, coolly, and

turned his back, departing the chamber to look for

Kradek-ka. Behind him, he heard Lorna’s soothing

words. First, he heard the crack as Lorna put Dekull’s

arm back in line. His scream shook the rafters. Then she

44 VAMPIRE WARLORDS

fed, and fed him her blood, and in so doing spread the

black blood of Bhu Vanesh, from killer to victim. She

spread the disease. Spread the curse.

It was night.

Graal sat in his large, almost regal sleeping chambers,

nursing a glass of port at a smooth-waxed redwood

table. Across from him sat Kradek-ka, face still battered

from his collision with a jagged mountain wall. He

looked far from his usual composed, serene self.

Outside, a large pale moon hung in the sky like a

pancreas cut free by a drunk surgeon. Yellow light fil-

tered into the sleeping chamber, and tumbled lazily

across Graal and Kradek-ka’s sombre features.

“So it is done,” said Kradek-ka, and took a drink from

his glass. Graal nodded, and rubbed his eyes. Bhu

Vanesh’s vampiric plague had swept through the High

Fortress in less than a day. Now, he had a hundred and

fifty vampire slaves, a jagged hierarchy ruled over by

Lorna and Division General Dekull. Dekull had shown

himself to be a formidable taker to the cause; and of

course, once he was under Bhu Vanesh’s control, the

Vampire Warlord instantly had access to Dekull’s emo-

tions, his thoughts and, more importantly, memories.

The instant Bhu Vanesh’s blood was in Dekull’s veins,

they shared a hive mind. Bhu Vanesh knew the layout

of the High Fortress, the Port of Gollothrim, the details

of Falanor army units, and everything else of military

interest. He had absorbed the Division General’s mind.

This was one of his talents.

And now, night had come.

ANDY REMIC 45

Bhu Vanesh lifted the portcullis, and with the baleful

yellow moon glaring down like a disapproving eye of

the gods, had pointed out into the city. Before him,

arranged on a cobbled courtyard, were a hundred and

fifty vampires. They were soldiers, stablehands, cooks

and cleaners. Each wore twin marks at their throat.

Each had gloss black eyes. Each could smell fresh blood.

Out there, in the city, in the world…

“Expand my slaves,” said Bhu Vanesh, stalking back

from the portcullis, head bobbing a little, legs working

with curious joints and making him even less than

human. Not that it took much imagination. In the

gloom, the flowing smoke of his flesh was even more

pronounced.

Silently, the flood of newborn vampires headed into

the night, spreading out, disseminating, each on a per-

sonal mission of feeding and violent coercion.

“It’s done,” agreed Graal. Bitterness was in his mind,

on his tongue, in his soul. He licked his own vampire

fangs. The feeling from Bhu Vanesh was tangible. He

hated not just humans, but the albinos and the vachine.

His arrogance was total. To Bhu Vanesh, everything that

walked or crawled was inferior. A slave. There to be

used, toyed with, and ultimately consumed as food.

“We must take him. Take them all! Send them back

to the Chaos Halls!” Kradek-ka had the light of madness

in his dark vachine eyes. He was a Watchmaker! A

Royal Engineer of Silva Valley! He was not used to

being a slave…

“Sh!” snapped Graal. He glanced around the cham-

ber. He gave a narrow smile. “I think our elite brethren

46 VAMPIRE WARLORDS

are the kind to employ many, many ears. Let us just say

I understand your frustration, and I agree with your

train of thought. What we must do is strike when he is

at his weakest.”

“With each new slave, he grows stronger. With each

drop of fresh blood, he grows more ferocious! You

know the legends as well as I, Graal. What I want to

know is why the magick failed us? Why, by all the gods,

did we lose control?”

Graal shook his head. “It was a cheap dice-trick. A

card con, like the sailors pull down on the docks. Who

wrote the ancient texts? The servants of the Warlords.

They wove betrayal into the narrative, after all, who

would summon them back without believing in their

own mastery? What incentive in being a slave? A pup-

pet? We were cheated, Kradek-ka. And our arrogance,

and greed, allowed us to be cheated. Without our ef-

forts, without our lust for power, the vachine would

have remained in Silva Valley. We were kings of a small

pond; now we are fucking slaves, just like the rest of

them.”

“‘Thus how thee mightye are crushed lyke shelles againste

thyr throynes,’” misquoted Kradek-ka, and poured him-

self another glass from the crystal decanter. The port

glimmered, like blood, in his glass. Somewhere, out in

the city, a human gave a terrible scream. Several crack-

ing sounds followed. Then a deep silence flooded back

in.

Graal and Kradek-ka’s eyes met.

“How do we solve this, and still remain dominant?”

said Kradek-ka.

ANDY REMIC 47

“Our first step is to kill Bhu Vanesh.”

Kradek-ka nodded, and nursed his drink, and lis-

tened to the vicious hunting far out in the darkness.

48 VAMPIRE WARLORDS

VAMPIRE WARLORDSThe Clockwork Vampire Chronicles

vol. III

by Andy Remic

432pp paperback and eBook

Extras: Inside the mind of Andy Remic

UK/RoW: May 2011

North America: June 2011

more? angryrobotbooks.com

Rem andyremic.com

also Kell’s Legend (I)

Soul Stealers (II)

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